Pieces of Our Lives
by cxitwrites
Summary: A collection of drabbles on spending life with Manhattan's ADA Rafael Barba, from the perspective of his lover. Barba/OC
1. One: Just Another Night

**Part I: Just Another Night**

Rafael's girl arrives home to find him more than a little stressed, and does what she can to help him relax.

 _Warnings: OC, language, implied sexual situation (not explicit)_

* * *

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I heard you the first time. Listen. I'm telling you. The grand jury is not going to return a bill of indictment on multiple counts of… no, no, no. Listen. You're not listening. She can't alibi him, she admitted… yes, exactly. Yes."

I peered over the breakfast bar into the dimly lit living room. He'd been on the phone for over an hour, and that was only since I'd walked in. Paperwork was scattered all over the coffee table and couch beside him, exploding from his briefcase like lava from Vesuvius. His dinner was untouched, somewhere under a copy of the New York Ledger he had spread out over it, to see the continuing story of his case from the front page. His stocking feet were propped up beside it, obscenely expensive shoes kicked off beneath the table, suit jacket thrown over the arm of the couch, waistcoat completely unbuttoned, tied pulled loose. It had obviously been a hard day. Then again, he doesn't see too many easy ones anymore.

I was cleaning up dinner dishes; one of us had actually eaten. Having come off a twelve hour shift, I threw together a stir-fry that lacked in many areas - the chicken was as overdone as the vegetables were underdone - and I'd shoveled a bit down as I caught a kiss on the cheek, then broken tendrils of conversations about arraignment, press leaks, confessions, ex-parte conversations, victims, evidence…

Somewhere after that first hour, he had begun to wilt, head lulled back, spreading out on the couch, body over paperwork. The caffeine high was wearing off. It was after midnight. I was tired too, exhausted, really, so ready to get out of my scrubs, ready to go to that big comfy bed that awaited me and spread out, and sleep until next week. But on my way toward the hall, I took another look at him, looking like a little boy's toy lawyer doll tossed into a corner. I watched him a minute, his voice low and gravely from overuse but his words still coming as fast as ever. His mouth always seemed in a race with his brain, trying to get the words out as quickly as synapses fired.

I hadn't seen him in a week. Sleep could wait.

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying. You know as well as I do that… yes, let alone without the victim's testimony. I understand… Liv, Liv. I don't care. I don't care! Get… Just get it. No, don't put Fin back on. I'm done."

I'm done. I smiled at the magic words, and peeled my scrub top off, pulling my tank top back down around me as I wandered towards the couch. The only light came from the end table lamp, an ugly thing his assistant had picked out when he'd moved in. It threw the room and its explosion of contents into golden light and shadows. My bare feet padded over the cold hardwood, and I tossed my top onto his suit jacket on the arm of the couch.

"… okay? Okay. I've got 120 hours to indict. Get me more for the grand jury. I need a victim willing to come forward, I need more evidence, evidence that isn't going to blow away with the hot air from the defense attorney's mouth."

I came to stand over him, arms crossed, a smile growing on my face. I nudged his propped up leg with my own. His eyes stayed closed, phone still pressed to his ear. He shook his head, mussing his hair as his head lulled against the back of the couch.

"That isn't proof."

I pressed my lips together, fighting the smile. That cell phone might as well have been superglued to his ear. I nudged his leg again. He rubbed his face with his free hand, before tossing it into the air, a gesture I easily read. "No, no, it's inadmissible, how many times do I have to say that? Are you listening to me, or have we talked so long you're beginning to lose your hearing?"

I slid down on one knee, balanced on the outside of his thigh, and straddled him. His eyes stayed closed, but his free hand came to rest on my hip, automatically, habitually, naturally.

"That isn't an alibi." He was exhausted. And more than a little perturbed. I bit my lip, thinking it was time I drew his attention away from the sergeant on the other end of the line. My hand slid under his unbuttoned waistcoat, up the starched cotton of his shirt, warm with the heat of his body. My fingers came to the buttons of his shirt collar, releasing them quickly. I was practiced at this, and the buttons yielded without a fight.

"Have you ever heard the word 'hearsay'? Know what it means?"

I loosened his tie, working my fingers through the silk. I grinned as his hand squeezed my hip.

"I have the records, I've studied them like a God damned scholar at Alexandria, okay? We've been over this a thousand times, and that's just in the last forty five minutes."

The top button of his shirt popped open, the the next, and the next. I leaned in, and pressed my lips against his collarbone, kissing my way to the hollow of his throat. My lips started up the warm flesh of his neck, to the sweet spot there just below his ear. He cut off a sentence I wasn't listening to with a moan he quickly stifled. My smile grew against his skin.

"You know, Liv? Nothing is going to change tonight. I'm d-d-done. Done. Yeah, yeah. Good night."

He had barely hung up his cell when I had it in my hand, and tossed it over my shoulder, not looking - or really caring - where it landed. I got lucky, not hearing a crack of cell-phone-meeting-floor, but a soft thud that meant I'd hit the armchair. Making my aim look better than it was.

I leaned back, finally seeing those baby blue eyes open.

"Hey," I said, my arms threading around his neck, leaning so close our noses were brushing.

"Hey." Both his hands were now on my hips, squeezing, fingers slipping into the waistband of my scrubs.

I pressed a kiss to his lips once, twice, three times, each a little slower than the last. When I leaned back, he smiled a tired kind of smile, his head lulling back onto the couch, my hands resting on his shoulders. I couldn't resist, he was giving me perfect access, so my mouth again found his neck, kissing a trail upward, feeling his pulse against my lips.

"I don't know how much longer I can do this."

"Hmmm?" I hummed, my lips, then teeth, finding his ear. I pressed a kiss to his sideburn-covered cheek, and kissed my way downward again. My lips had missed his skin.

"I don't… I can't… do this. These people, these cops… they've been working these cases for five, ten, fifteen years, some of them. I… I don't know if I can do that. I don't know how they do it. I can't, I… oh. Oooh. Baby. Mmmm."

I chuckled against his jawline, nipping at the stubble there. "I'm sorry," I said, pulling away, but unable to keep from smiling. "I'm distracting you." I gave his thighs a squeeze with my knees. My fingers laced through his hair at the back of his neck, one hand coming down to rest on the skin bared by his half-open shirt. "Talk to me."

He shook his head again, brow furrowing low, pursing his lips until they were practically nonexistent. "These cases are an entirely new level of sick."

Something in his voice worried me. The smile faded from my face, and I traced tiny circles against the smooth skin of his chest. His eyes were looking past me, not across the room but somehow looking far away. Fine lines formed between his eyebrows.

It took me a moment to decide on an approach. "It takes a lot to shake you, Rafi," I said finally.

He sighed, and I could feel the heat of his exhale on my skin. His hands fell from my hips. "It used to. Now… _no lo sé_. I don't know anymore. I just… can't think about this. Not anymore. Not tonight." He rubbed his face. The slump of his shoulders hurt me - I wasn't used to seeing him look so terribly defeated.

"Then don't," I whispered. "Don't think about it."

He looked at me then, a small smile quirking onto his lips, a ghost of its usual self. "Distract me?" He asked, and I smiled. My hands under his unbuttoned waistcoat, pushing it off his shoulders. The same with his suspenders. I finished loosening his tie, pulled it off, balled it up, and tossed it, like the cell phone, over my shoulder. My fingers then went to work finishing the job they had started before, popping open the remaining buttons of his dress shirt. All the while peppering kisses over his face. By the time I slid his shirt off, he was smiling his usual smile, albeit tired. After that, his lips had tasks other than smiling to attend to.

Later we lay on the couch, clothes scattered around the couch and floor like debris after a tornado. My bra had somehow made a perfect landing on that ugly table lamp, and I think his boxers were somewhere behind the couch. I pressed a kiss to the lines that had developed over these past few months on his forehead, as he breathed slowly, deeply, on top of me. I had him wrapped in my legs under the plush throw he'd managed to pull over us, and my arms were around him too, pressed against the bare skin of his back, still slick with sweat. His head fit perfectly in the crook of my neck. I held him tight, enjoying the pressure and heat of him, soaking in the calm that always came with being near him, a calm that was so at odds with the fast-talking, caffeine-chugging ADA who cruised around the city in shining shoes with perfectly coiffed hair. I glanced sideways, smiling at the unruly spikes now in that dove-soft hair. I wished I could take away some of his stress, some of his worry, and maybe if I held him close enough, I could. I kissed his forehead again, tightening my legs around him, my ankles crossed over him. He moaned softly - I loved that sound - and nuzzled into me, his fingers pressing into my skin. He always held me like I was going to slip away if he let go.

" _Cariño_ ," he breathed, voice rough. I could feel the words reverberating through his chest. "You're good at this."

I couldn't help the snort of laughter that bubbled up in my throat. "Um… thank you?"

"No," I heard the smile in his voice, and he pressed his lips to my chest, just over my still-racing heart. "I mean, yes, you're good at this… obviously. But I mean… you're good at… being good to me. You know… helping me… get out of my head, and… well…" He trailed off.

My grin couldn't be suppressed. I couldn't help myself. "What's this?" I asked with feigned surprise. "Mister Rafael Barba, assistant district attorney of Manhattan, noted master of both the English and Spanish languages, a man whose mouth has gotten uncounted criminals thrown in the prisons where they so rightfully belong - and gotten himself into more trouble than I'd care to recount - is speechless?"

He glanced up at me, grinning. "Yes, well… you may well be the only woman capable of producing such a phenomenon."

"Good." I said with a decisive nod, and meeting his lips as he brought them towards mine. "Good," I said again, as he settled back against me. I threaded my fingers through his hair as we drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Translations:

 _no lo sé_ \- I don't know.

 _cariño_ \- darling

 _A/N: Well, this is part one of a collection of nearly thirty completed drabbles from this POV that I've completed; hopefully someone will enjoy reading them, because I've enjoyed writing them. It's been ages since I published any fanfic: will publish a few more drabbles to determine if anyone is even interested!_

 _I felt the need to publish these after our favorite ADA was so abruptly written off the show. It's just my little shout into the void, that Rafael Barba (and the incomparable Raul Esparza) have made a real impression on viewers, and have revved at least one imagination into overdrive. Hope you enjoy! - C_


	2. Two: Cell Phone Delivery

**Part II: Cell Phone Delivery**

The one thing an ADA can't live without: his cell phone. The one thing he left at home? You guessed it.

 _Warnings: OC_

 _Associated episode: N/A_

* * *

I took the courthouse steps two at a time; the cell phone in the back pocket of my scrubs had been vibrating non-stop for the past hour. Each time I checked it a different number illuminated the screen, the names all correlating with lawyers, ADAs, cops, even his assistant. At last count he had seven voicemails and twelve text messages awaiting his review.

Now all I had to do was find him.

I hurried through the big double doors into the cool entryway of the courthouse, a stark contrast to the sweltering heat rising outside. I wove past women in smart business clothes in a myriad of muted colors, and men in suits that cost more than a month of my salary.

At the elevator I jammed the up button a few times with my knuckle, bouncing on the balls of my feet as I watched the numbers slowly decline. The courthouse was a twenty-five minute cab ride from the hospital, and if I was so much as fifteen seconds late in returning, my boss, Mrs Akalitus, was going to gut me like a fish.

Rafi's office was on the third floor, and the elderly elevator took its jolly old time climbing up there. I knew the way passably well, though I'd never come around during business hours. After a late-night at the hospital, when I knew he was still at the office, poring over a mountain of paperwork on a current case, I'd swing by, bring dinner or coffee. Mostly my visits were brief: he'd either shake off my requests to come home, citing a metric ton of work that couldn't wait, or we'd end up having sex on his desk and leave together shortly after.

Either way, my previous visits to the office of the ADA had been brief.

In his office I was greeted by a look of mild recognition on the face of his assistant. She was thin and tall, her hair neat and short, and today, as in every one of the handful of times we'd met, she gave off an air of put-togetherness that I had never in my life achieved.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for Raf…ael," I stammered a bit, thinking at the last minute that nicknames might not be appropriate here. "Barba. I'm his, um…"

My hesitation seemed to trip something in her brain. "His girlfriend, of course!" She got up and shook my hand in a warmly businesslike manner. She glimpsed the cell-phone I slipped from my pocket, and the puzzle was complete. "That's right, he said he left that at home this morning. I offered to run over and get it, but…" She gave a backward glance at the pile of paperwork on her desk, a mountain looking rather like Krakatoa.

"But you're swamped," I offered and she grinned.

"Always. Mr. Barba is downstairs at an arraignment. Do you want to leave his phone here?"

"Ah," I waffled, glancing at the clock on the wall. I could feel the minutes ticking by, but… "I'd kind of like to see him. Think he'll be long?"

She backtracked and clicked around on the computer some, before nodding, "Actually he should be getting out now, if he hasn't already. First floor, arraignment courtroom three." She offered me a smile that dimpled her tan cheeks. "Go get him, girl."

I hurried downstairs, choosing the stairs over the elevator that was likely new when Abraham Lincoln was frequenting the theater. The building was beautiful, you had to give it that: the polished floors, bright marble, shining hardwood, even a depiction of the Lady of Justice rendered in stained glass. I was distinctly out of place: I came to a crossroad of hallways and stopped a woman to ask for directions. She looked at me in my bright polyester scrubs like I was an overgrown blue parrot fluttering around her workplace.

I finally found the place but no amount of craning in the crowded room found me the man I was looking for. With a heavy sigh I resigned myself to heading back upstairs and leaving the phone with Carmen… until at last, in the hall, I found what I was looking for: one handsome, harried ADA in a gray suit and peppy checkered tie.

I started forward, but almost immediately hit the brakes. He was flanked by three people, and deep serious conversation. I could guess their identities: middle-aged and dark-haired, pretty, and badgering him… that would be Benson. Tall, blondish, gangly guy about my age… Carisi, the night-school law student who already thought he was an attorney (at least that's how Rafi described him in his more inspired tangents). And the short, young blonde would have to be Rollins.

None of this quartet looked particularly happy, Rafi least of all. He was talking a mile a minute, briefcase in one hand, the other struggling to loosen the tie I'd told him this morning looked more like a summer pinic tablecloth than a tie. It had taken quite a bit of convincing to get the irritated look off his face after that particular allegation….

Seeing him here in his natural habitat was a jolt, so different from seeing him in his apartment or mine, in restaurants or in the park. This was Rafael Barba, ADA, known for chewing up defendants with his wit and cleverness, and his snark besides. This was not the Rafi who ate Ben & Jerry's ice cream with me in bed in our underwear, who left his apartment in the most hideous running gear known to man, planting a kiss on my chin as he left, or the one who held my hand as we traversed the city's bookstores and parks on the odd free weekend.

All right, so I was intimidated, and not entirely sure he'd wand his posse to meet me. I'd met a few of his friends: a college friend here, another ADA there. We'd sat next to a congressman who had once been his roommate at a showing of Hamilton on Broadway. I'd met his mother - Lord help me - and his grandmother. But I'd never met these people. The ones he saw on a daily basis. The ones that brought him the horrific cases he so often became mired in. The ones who saw a whole different side of him - a side I wasn't sure had anything in common with the one that I knew.

The phone vibrating in my hand brought me back to reality. I squared my shoulders and started forward.

"Any of them file a lawsuit, or press charges?" He was asking, still struggling with the unyielding tie.

"No, he's been good at dodging charges," the guy I assumed to be Carisi was saying, but Raf shook his head, talking over him, "No, that won't work, if charges weren't brought…"

His eye was likely drawn by the unnatural brightness of my blue scrubs in this sea of muted colors, but for a second his ADA-expression stayed fixed on his face, not quite placing me. A heartbeat later, the facade cracked, and he smiled. " _Cariño_."

"Hey," I forwent my usual honey or babe as he came forward to meet me. I was keenly aware of the three detectives and their attention fixed on the awkward blue-clad red-cheeked woman their ADA was approaching.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," he took the phone from me with one hand and slipped the other arm around me. He pressed his lips to my cheek, and gave me a look that helped calm my suddenly jittery nerves. "You are… just what I need right now." His smile was one of such singular sweetness I all but forgot that I wasn't the only one in the room, until he said, "Come here, come meet the crew." His arm around me, he shepherded me towards the trio. "Olivia Benson, Carisi, Rollins, this is my…"

I held my smiling breath. _My friend? Girlfriend? Lover? My phone delivery girl?_

"… lady friend." My eyebrows arched, and I mimed lady friend as he went on to provide them my name and unimpressive credentials. "What?" He asked, catching sight of my expression. "Girlfriend sounds infantile, like we're in the seventh grade."

I shook hands and exchanged pleasantries with the detectives who regarded me with varying levels of curiosity and welcome. Carisi, true to the idea I'd formed of him, was the one to press forward. "I never really pictured Barba having a girlfriend… or, you know, any life outside the office. What do you do in your free time, talk about tie patterns?"

"Yeah, actually," I laughed, even as Rafi's expression withered. He took my by the elbow - giving Carisi a look I didn't envy being the target of - and led me away from the trio. I couldn't wipe the smile off my face, and this seemed to soften his glower a little. "Can you stay? Grab some lunch?"

"Ah, I wish I could," I lamented. "I've got to get back to the hospital. Places to go, patients to triage."

"No rest for the weary," he nodded, and pressed his lips to mine. "Go. You're saving the world, you know."

"Please!" I laughed, walking away, holding his hand until the last second. "See you tonight?"

" _Esta noche, mi amor_."

* * *

Translations:

 _cariño_ \- darling

 _Esta noche, mi amor -_ Tonight, my love

 _A/N: Thanks to everyone who's reading this, and an enormous thanks to those that reviewed. Hope you enjoy! - C_


	3. Three: Cold

**Part III: Cold**

This case is really getting to him, but what comfort can she possible give?

 _Warnings: OC_

 _Associated episode: Institutional Fail (S17 E04)_

* * *

My eyes opened at 3:02am, blinking into that brief Not-There state between awake and asleep. The bedroom was too bright with the city lights pouring through the gauzy white curtains - I'd forgotten to pull the heavier panels closed - and I was a woman-shaped icicle beneath the blankets. The day had been the epitome of New York Autumn, beautiful, bright, and barely 60 degrees. The bedroom was cold. The chill seeped into my feet, my fingers, and snaked up my arms and legs despite the sheets and the thick, plush comforter. I reached for Rafi but found his side of the bed empty and cold. Shivery all over, I slipped out of bed and padded toward the glow in the living room.

I figured I'd find him on the couch, and there he was, in the golden glow of the table lamp, surrounded by a virtual explosion of paperwork, briefs, and folders. I crept forward and… _yes_ , he was actually asleep. A smile pricked at the edges of my lips. _Miracles do happen_. I wasn't sure if he'd fallen asleep before the apartment got so cold, or if he had deliberately left the heat off. He maintained that cold helped him think, but this was glacial, and sometimes I thought he harbored deep-seated self-harming tendencies… would certainly explain his dedication to this job.

I cranked up the thermostat, then carefully gathered the paperwork that was scattered around him like so many autumn leaves on the ground outside. I tried to keep it in some semblance of order, holding the folders with the same care that I would a bomb - it gave me the creeps just holding this stuff. This case… it was killing Rafi to take it on, and the work involved only part of it. The cases involving kids… they always hit him hard. But this? How many dozens of children had been neglected by the very caseworkers charged with ensuring their care? So much for Child Protective Services. How many children had been subjected to physical abuse, neglect, malnutrition, while they had case workers who were supposed to be safeguarding them?

With a moue of distaste, I set the papers out of the way, and pulled the cashmere throw from the back of the chair. The white of the blanket was especially bright against the remnants of the tan he had from our trip to St. Barts, and I tucked it in around him. Even in sleep he looked discouraged, like he'd taken the details of the case into his dreams. I brushed his hair away from his forehead - it was getting long - and pressed my lips to his skin.

My fingers were on the lamp switch when his voice rumbled through the silence. "A four year old girl…" his voice was rough as tires on gravel, and he cleared his throat. "She was admitted to Mercy with cigarette burns all over her body. The day her case worker reported a home-visit. The report said… they she was fine."

He sat there, eyes still closed, head lulled back, looking to all the world like he was asleep. Except for the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed hard. A lump had formed in my own throat, and didn't want to be dislodged.

"The case workers, CPS… they said they were there for that little girl. And for… for the others. For the eight year old boy whose mother was making him drink bleach. For the nine year old girl living in a dog cage. For the seven year old who was r-" His voice broke, and he stopped speaking.

The floor was frigid beneath my feet, but I couldn't move. What words could I possibly offer? What comfort? Could I say, 'It'll be okay, Rafael?'. There was _nothing_ okay about any of it.

When I finally convinced my feet to walk, I came to stand beside the couch, looking down on his upturned face, his carefully blank expression. "How do you… how can you find anything… good? Anything good in people after… after hearing this?"

I sank down onto the couch beside him as he ran a finger and thumb across his closed eyes, and sniffed quietly. "I can't," he said, but didn't finish. "I… I can't."

I lay my head on the back of the couch, shoulder to shoulder with him. Searching the shadows on the ceiling desperately, as if they would form into the words I needed to comfort him. No. Not even _comfort_. Words to try to make sense of it. But I couldn't find them. So I slid my arm over his chest, and put my cheek on his shoulder. I had finally settled on what to say as my fingers slid up his neck -

He jerked away from my touch, those crystalline eyes popping open at once, glassy but immediately alert. " _Dios mío_ , your fingers are freezing!" He threw off the blanket and draped it over both of us, taking my admittedly frigid fingers between his much warmer ones. His heat was glorious, and there was something comforting in seeing him occupied with thoughts other than those case-related. I tucked my feet up under me and wrapped him in my arms, pulling him close, even as he hissed at the feeling my cold skin on his. I offered the only thing I could think of, however insufficient, but the most basic truth I knew: "I love you, Rafi." And that was it. That was all I had.

* * *

Translations:

 _Dios mío - my God_

 _A/N: First post of a chapter that correlates directly to an episode. Thanks to everyone who's reviewed, favorited, and taken time to read this; you make my day. - C_


	4. Four: Determination

**Part IV: Determination**

SVU has delivered Rafael a tough case, and a sleepless night.

 _Warnings: OC_

 _Associated episode: N/A_

* * *

I dreamt I was wandering around my hospital, inexplicably lost in the familiar white hallways. I'd my way to where I meant to be - my ER - but the door would disappear just as I approached it. I heard a siren in the distance and knew there was a trauma coming in, knew I had to get to there, so I started running, racing toward the next door, but each one vanished one after another. Every time I swung around a familiar corner, the door was sinking into the wall, gone without a trace.

The sirens grew louder, echoing in my ears, and I knew, I _knew_ they were looking for me, just on the other side of the wall…

When I woke up I half expected to still be in the hospital but instead of the acrid smell of disinfectant, I smelled freshly laundered sheets and Rafael's cologne. There were still the sirens though, and when I reached across the bed, I found only cool sheets and no Rafi.

I got to my knees and peered out the curtain, setting my chin on the headboard. The night sky was glowing faintly orange in the east - there was a fire a few streets over, and a bad one, if the number of firetrucks was any indication.

I watched for a while, watched the red, white, and blue lights of firetrucks, ambulances, and cop cars whizzing toward the scene; I watched until that curiosity was sated, and another one cropped up: the case of the missing lover.

To be honest, I knew where I'd find him. It's where I always found him when the bed beside me was cold in the wee hours.

He was pacing in front of the couch, his usual entourage of folders and law books and a plethora of paperwork scattered around the couch, having overflowed from the coffee table. The clock on the wall told me it was 2am, and the hunch of his shoulders told me he'd been at this for more than a few hours. He still wore his undershirt and suit pants, but everything else had been shucked and tossed onto various surfaces, including the tie which was now hanging off that ugly table lamp.

I watched him for a few minutes, watched as he paced back and forth, back and forth, arms folded over his chest, the gold cross he wore on a chain around his neck glinting in the lamp light. Finally he stopped in front of the window and rubbed his face with both hands. I crept up behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist. He jumped, startled, before I pressed my lips to the back of his neck. His skin was hot, his neck and ears bright red. Whatever was bothering him, it was _really_ bothering him.

"I'm losing this case," he bit the words out, as if disgusted to be speaking them. "I'm losing this case and I don't know how to stop." His hands came to hold mine against his chest.

"It'll come to you, babe. It always does."

"Not this time. This guy, he's… he's slithered out of three convictions on technicalities. And he's going to do it again if I don't come up with how to convince a jury he's guilty with evidence that's…" he stopped, and let out a long, slow breath. "My arguments are solid, I've got an answer-tree that's strong, but… but if I don't prove that he did this-"

"You can only with with what you have to work with, Raf," I said quietly, setting my chin on his shoulder. "If the evidence isn't there…" I trailed off

"It is, to an extent, but…" he sighed again. Trying to keep from giving me too much information. Trying to walk the line between letting me in, and letting me know too much. Trying to shield me from the sickness he dealt with in these SVU cases. "There's just too much left to chance here. Too much room for interpretation by the jury, and the defense attorney-"

"Buchanan?"

"Yes," he growled. "He's going to sink his teeth into the holes in this case and rip it apart."

"What do you always say, babe? Don't catastrophize?"

He gave a sharp exhale of breath - the laugh of a man currently incapable of laughing. He stared out the window, his thumbs rubbing over the skin of my hands as he held them to his chest. If I closed my eyes I could almost see the synapses firing in his brain, thoughts racing as he tried to build a bulletproof case against a man he knew was guilty down to the very marrow of his bones.

We stood there quietly for a long time, until finally he spoke again, voice low and determined. "I have to get him."

"You will."

"I _have_ to. I don't know how I'm going to do it **,"** another one of those one-breath laughs. "But I'm going to."

* * *

Translations: _NA_

 _A/N: A shorty chapter while I punch up my 'how they met' oneshot. Will post it next! As always, thanks for reading, and reviewing! - C_


	5. Five: A Slight Delay

**Part V: A Slight Delay**

They planned on going to the Met, but life sometimes interrupts in unexpected ways... though, not always bad ones.

 _Warnings: strong language, adult situation, OC_

 _Associated episode: N/A_

* * *

I pressed my lips to his once more before he stepped out of the shower, his skin steaming as he closed the shower door behind him. I glimpsed the fogged mirror, and him wrapping a towel around his waist before the shower door closed. I had to grin a little: he did have a perfectly _lovely_ ass.

My skin was tingling, and I was beautifully relaxed as I stepped back under the shower head, letting the hot water pour over me. I was surprised there was any left - my fingers were pruning, we had to have been in for at least an hour and a half. A another big difference between Rafi's apartment and mine, in addition to square footage and general niceness: the size of the water-heater.

I heard tendrils of a tune from outside the shower. "Sing louder, babe," I called as I soaped my hair with his shampoo. I'd smell like him all day - and that wasn't a bad thing.

"I don't want the neighbor's dogs to start barking," he laughed.

Through the etched glass, I saw him start getting dressed. "I'll be out in a minute," I assured him.

"No, _mi amor,_ stay, take your time. I want to finish that brief before we leave for the museum."

He was dressed in a tee and his jeans, towel around his neck as he passed the shower again, towards the door. I pushed the door open and poked my head out, "Hey." He backtracked, smiling, looking as comfortable and relaxed as me. "Have I told you lately that you're too good to me?"

He didn't respond, just pressed his grinning lips to mine.

I did as instructed, took my time, but showering wasn't nearly as much fun without him in there with me. I stepped out, wrapping a towel around my hair and another around my body, stepping up to the mirror. The circle he'd cleared had fogged again, so I wiped it off. My skin was flushed, bright white highlighted pink, and peppered with dark red marks on my neck, collarbone, and one just visible above the towel wrapped around me, left by Rafi's mouth. The one on my neck would be a problem to cover in my scrubs come Monday morning… but that was a problem for Monday, and it was blessedly Saturday.

As I was drying off and fantasizing about my remaining forty-five-plus hours away from work, a thought struck me: one of my work buddies, Sassy, told me earlier this week about the Italian heritage festival out in Little Italy. The Met wasn't going anywhere, and I knew Rafi's penchant for gnocchi. I pulled on the long tee-shirt I'd worn as pajamas last night and my underwear, padded out the bathroom door, into the bedroom, toweling my hair. "Hey baby, you know Sas, from work? She told me about a festival in Little Italy this weekend, and you know, the Met will keep-"

I hit the hallway and stopped so quickly I nearly skidded on the polished hardwood: Rafi was indeed where I'd expected him to be - in the living room, bent over his desk - but he was not alone. They both turned around, the woman - mid-forties, brunette, with a badge clipped to her belt - wearing a look I was sure was mirrored on my own face: slightly horrified surprise.

"Oh," I was saying, and so was she. _Benson_ , the name clicked in my brain, and that day at the courthouse when I was dropping of Rafael's cell phone.

Rafi, for his part, took my appearance in stride, despite my relative dishabille, and proceeded with the re-introductions, as if we might've forgotten each other. There was no 'you remember my girlfriend' from him, but I doubted that was needed. I stood in my underwear, with approximately eight miles of leg poking out from my tee-shirt, my hair soaked, towel in hand. Rafi was equally, obviously just out of the shower. We might as well have been wearing matching 'We Just Fucked' tee-shirts. I felt my cheeks burning as I stuttered through a greeting.

"Good… Good to see you," she said, her voice a mixture of gravely and feminine, but there was no inflection of actual pleasure in her voice. It was only then that I noticed how close they stood to each other.

"Ah," I managed, my brain doing a little two-step of embarrassment and vague concern. "It's great to see you, Sergeant. You look well," I smiled before the pause got too long. I plastered a smile on my flaming face. My eyes flickered to Rafi, and while Ms Benson was waffling, eyes looking basically anywhere but at me, Rafi's eyes never left me, and his smile was relaxed; not as if he'd been caught doing something he should have been - either with me, or her. This made my smile a little more natural. "Well, I'll, ah… I'll go… put some pants on. Always important."

"It was nice to see you," Ms Benson called as I turned down the hall, awkwardly pulling the tee-shirt down in the back to better cover my thighs.

"You too!"

About ten minutes later, I'd blown my hair dry and pulled on a pair of yoga pants, just in case the Sergeant was still present when I walked out. But when I turned from the mirror, I found Rafi, propped in the doorway of the bathroom, hair fluffed up on the front, not it's usual slick, neat comb. There was a little smile on his lips, and I was more than a little familiar with the look in his eyes. "You are gorgeous, you know that?" He asked, and I couldn't help but snort.

"No," I answered honestly, my smile growing without my permission.

He wandered over to me, bare-footed, as I slid up to sit on the bathroom counter. He set a hand on either side of me, propping himself up on the marble. "Well I know it," he said, lingering well within kissing distance, but not moving in. His crystalline eyes sparkled in the bright light. "And the Italian Festival sounds perfect. But they're open late, right?"

"I s'pose," I grinned as I wrapped my arms around his neck. "Why? That brief going to take longer than expected?"

"Brief?" He asked, brows falling. "Brief, brief… ah. No." The tip of his nose rubbed against mine; his voice no louder than a whisper; he consistently leaned just away enough to keep me from kissing him. "No," he said, his voice rough and low. "I have… more important things to… occupy me today."

"You aren't all, ah… _occupied_ out?"

Finally, he moved in and pressed his lips to mine, capturing my lower lip between his, his tongue running across my lip. He stepped between my legs and I wrapped them around him as he deepened the kiss. After a while - long enough to put the burn back on my cheeks, the hammer back in my heartbeat, and the tingle back in my skin - he pulled away, peppering kisses up my jaw until his mouth was brushing my ear. "I've caught a second wind." His mouth found my neck, and I threaded my fingers through his hair.

"Bed?" I asked as his hands slipped up my tee-shirt.

"Why move?" He asked against my skin.

It was a good long while before we got to the Italian Festival, but that was perfectly okay.

* * *

Translations:

 _mi amor - my love_

 _A/N: Thanks to everyone who's reading, and to those of you who've commented, favorited, and PM'ed their feedback: you are darlings. Next chapter will hopefully be how they met, but it needs some punching up. Here's something for the wait! Hope you enjoy. - C_


	6. Six: Black & White Ball

**Part VI: Black & White Ball**

She has no intention of attending a Black & White Ball with him, no matter what he says. Nope, she's not going to do it. She won't! She can't. She simply... oh, hell.

 _Warnings: OC, language, fluff!_

* * *

"A black and white ball?"

"A black and white ball," he snatched a piece of pepper from the cutting board and popped it into his mouth, and slid up onto the counter beside my dinner prep. Paisley tie undone, bright blue socks still on his feet. He'd gotten a haircut yesterday and was still working on how to flip his short fringe, running his fingers through it again and again. He caught sight of my curdling-milk expression and stopped fiddling. "What's that look for?"

"A black. And white. Ball?"

Big blue shifting eyes. "Have I lapsed into Spanish?" I held the knife out at him, pepper slice still poised on the tip. He grinned, leaned forward to bite the pepper off, and said through a full mouth, "Like a big dinner party, lots of mingling, eating, dancing. A ball. It's a generally accepted term for a bunch of people in evening attire get together and-"

"Can you turn the sass off for a second?" I cut him off, and moved on to cutting the onion for the fajitas, trying to control the sudden anxiety roiling in my stomach. I cleared my throat. "Make yourself useful, will you?" I motioned to the pile of peppers, then pointed with the knife over my shoulder.

"Yes ma'am," he slid off the counter, but instead of grabbing the pile of peppers, he swung around behind me, setting his chin on my shoulder and his arms wrapping around my waist. "Oh, is this not what you meant?" His mouth was warm against the skin of my neck. "Sorry," he said, then moved my hair and slid his lips down from my ear to my shoulder, mouth peppering kisses all the way down. His hands gripped my hips, his body pressing against mine. Still, the words black and white ball pinged around my head the way the threat of most social situations did, but this one came with the triple-threat of not only being social, but being with Rafi's people - DA people, government people, the rich an successful, the highest of Manhattan society - and, undoubtedly, being somewhere impossibly posh. In essence: it would mean being a situation that made me expressly uncomfortable, with people that made me feel absurdly inadequate, held in a place that made me keenly aware I was out of my element.

His kisses, normally the one thing that most easily transported me to some lovely warm place outside reality, were not making their usual magic. "Black and white ball," I repeated, still slicing. His lips left my skin and he sighed heavily, burying his face in my hair.

"Honey, _mi amor_ … please. Don't worry-"

"I'm not worried. Worry implies… something I'm not." I shook my head as he pressed his forehead into my shoulder. "Raf… how long have you know me?"

"Four fantastic years." His voice was muffled by my hair.

"And when have I ever embraced something like this?"

His chest rumbled as he hummed. "Never?"

"Never."

"But it's going to be fun."

"You're dangerously close to whining right now."

His arms tightened around my middle. "I am _not_ whining, I don't _whine_. But I think you'd have fun. I think we'd have fun."

I set down the knife, drew a deep breath, and turned in his arms. I hung my forearms over his shoulders, my feet on either side of his. "What have I ever done to make you think I would consider a black and white ball to be fun?" He started talking, but I talked over him. "Four fantastic years, Raf. What do I consider to be fun?"

"Reading," he said at once. I frowned, or tried to turn my lips down, anyway. "Walking. Exploring. Biking in the park. Cooking. Baking. Seeing Broadway shows. Going to the movies. Netflix. Uh… painting? Erm… sh-shopping? Singing in the show-" I kissed him to shut him up. He grinned against my lips. "What? That not considered a hobby?"

"The only hobby I participate in in the shower involves you," I told him, unable to keep a poker face on. My fingers played with the slight curl in his hair at the back of his neck, and I kissed his lips again. His five o'clock shadow scratched my skin. "So," I asked when we finally broke apart. "Do any of those things have anything in common with going to balls?"

"Well, there's some walking involved, and-"

I kissed him again. "No. No thank you, love. But no. Now can you please do something about that chicken?"

He glanced behind him, to where the pan of chicken was sending up smoke like a beacon of Gondor. "Shit!"

_

"What the hell am I doing?" I asked aloud as I tromped up the hundred steps of the Althorpe Ballroom in Midtown, in the only elegant shoes in the whole of Manhattan without a heel. They pinched the hell out of my toes. "What the actual hell am I doing?"

I wanted to be at home in my softest pajamas, in bed with Rafi and a bowl of popcorn, binge watching Netflix. Not running like hell, half an hour late, trussed up like a turkey on Thanksgiving, smelling of perfume and anxiety.

I slipped through one set of the three double doors crowning the front of the ballroom, a gorgeous building that would look more at home on the streets of Paris instead of plonked down on a New York City street. The second set of doors was still manned, and opened for me by a doorman in an impeccable uniform. The bass beat of the band could be heard outside, but the rest of the band - playing a beautiful, gentle, classic tune I recognized but couldn't name - was only audible once I slipped into the main ballroom.

 _This is the stupidest thing I've ever done, the stupidest, stupidest thing_ , my mind kept repeating over and over. I hoped I'd slathered on enough foundation because my cheeks were flaming as I entered into this gigantic society function, late, unexpected, and _unspeakably_ nervous.

I'd turned down Rafi's invite. Invites. Frequent and prolific invites. I simply wasn't going to do it. I wasn't.

And yet, here I was. I couldn't stand the faded quality of his smile as he left for work that morning. There was little enough he had to smile about lately, and he was excited about this big to-do. And I was the dour thundercloud hovering overhead, raining on his parade.

Noon came, and I was still determined I wasn't going. Then two o'clock. And four. And six. I get a call, and he's telling me he'll see me tonight, he's not going to be very late, just going to stop at "this thing" for a while, and come home. He was having a bad day, I heard that in his tone, and he just sounded so terribly dejected. I hung up, glanced at the clock, and started running like a Jamaican sprinter at the Olympics, pinging from this borough to that, looking for a black gown that would preferably not just fit but compliment my non-model body, while also searching for no-heel formal shoes, and somebody to do my hair. Finding all of these things were easier said than done. I was arguably taller than your average woman, longer legged and longer armed, with more boob, belly, and hip than most upper East and West side designers know what to do with; bigger feet than most women, and who sells formal flats? Four inch heels, yes. Flats? Unheard of. And somebody to do my hair? Please. Half of New York State seemed to need their hairstylist that day. Nobody had any appointments available, and God knew my hair, unruly on the best of days, wouldn't be socially acceptable in any state but professionally tamed.

Somehow I managed, though with rocketing stress levels. I was practically breaking out in hives as I was doused in lovely music and the glowing ambiance of the ballroom.

 _Oh, hell._

This was, of course, a horrible entrance for a woman unused to walking in anything other than jeans or scrubs, not to mention being in uncomfortable shoes: late, from the top of the marble staircase, heading down into a black and white sea of humanity. Tables dotted the landscape, but the place was awash, awash, in people in evening wear. _How am I ever going to find him?_ I wondered, plastering a pleasant look on my face as my heart hammered. More than a few people had glanced my way, probably wondering where the gigantic Caspar-pale redneck came from, and when she'd jump back on wagon and go back to the cornfield she was no doubt plucked from. _No_ , a little voice whispered in my head. _They won't wonder that until you start talking. Right now they're just judging you based on how awful you look. It has nothing to do with your white-trash roots._

At last, I caught a break. I saw out of the corner of my eye, like Moses parting the Red Sea, somebody cutting through the crowd. _Rafael_. He looked stunned, flabbergasted at my appearance here. Hell, _I_ was flabbergasted by my arrival. But the sight of him softened my smile. He always softened me.

I arrived at the bottom step, having at least not tripped over my own two feet, and anxiety started bubbling up in my chest again. "Hey, darling," I said, my voice quieter and less steady than I wanted it to be. He was in a tux, looking impeccably put together, with a perfectly straight black tie, glinting buttons on his dress shirt, his hair just-so. He was looking at me with an expression I'd never seen before, wide-eyed and wondering, and I hoped there wasn't any embarrassment hidden in those big blue eyes. He didn't say a word.

"You look incredibly handsome," I told him, trying to keep my hands from shaking, my voice from trembling. A long moment, a few heartbeats, and he was still looking at me like I'd hit him over the head with a cast-iron frying pan. My feet shuffled in those incredibly painful shoes.

"You," he said at last, seeming to shake it off. He looked me up and down and up again. "You… are… the most… beautiful woman I've ever seen."

And I melted. The smile that lit up his face lit mine up too, as he took my hands in his own. "What are you doing here? What… What changed your mind?"

"You." Honesty seemed the best policy. "I didn't want to… well, you… you don't ask for much, babe. I didn't want to be a killjoy."

"You are the exact opposite of a killjoy." He was grinning from ear to red ear. "You- You want to dance?"

"You want your feet stepped on?"

"I'd be honored."

I laughed, shakily, with some difficulty, but it was a laugh. "Sure, then." He led me to the dance floor and took me in his arms. I felt more like home, then, and relaxed a least enough to take a deep breath - as deep as the dress allowed.

"I've never worn a dress like this before," I admitted, glancing down. The dress was a black silk chiffon confection, the likes of which I'd never touched before, much less worn. It was low-cut, with thin-straps tying around my neck, and white floral sequined lace circling the bodice and hips. A reproduction of a 1940 Bergdorf Goodman ballgown, or so the saleswoman said, like that was supposed to mean something to me. It cost about a month's rent, an was the most elegant thing I'd ever seen.

"I don't know that any woman in the history of the world has worn a dress like you're wearing that one now," he said, his eyes roaming, appreciative.

"Feels kind of ridiculous," I told him with complete honesty. "I never even went to my prom. I think… the last dress I wore was to my First Communion."

"You've been depriving the world of an enchanting sight."

"Enchanting?" I laughed. "Just call me Cinderella."

And, for the rest of the night, I certainly felt like Cinderella, in her pre-midnight, dolled-up form. The usual things nagged me: the fear of eating in public, of dropping a piece of whatever down my now exposed cleavage; the preoccupation with my posture, how I looked, how I spoke, what people were thinking. But over all of that, easing it, was Rafi. His hand never left mine. His gaze rarely left me, and no longer made me wonder if it was tinged with embarrassment. It just made me feel like the only woman in the room.

In the wee hours of the morning, after a night of dancing and mingling, we slid into a Lincoln town-car outside of the Althorpe Ballroom beneath the halo of light that encircles Manhattan, and, somewhere above that, unseen stars. My shoes were off before the door was shut, and I was finally sighing with relief, when Rafi stole that sigh away as he pressed his lips to mine. "What was that for?" I asked, a little out of breath, when he finally pulled away.

His smile returned. "For making my day. My week. Possibly my year."

"You exaggerate, sir," I told him, and pecked his lips again.

"I mean it. That was going to be a great drag, business disguised as pleasure. But…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "You know, I think that's the first time I've felt human in the company of those people in years."

"As opposed to feeling Vulcan?"

He rolled his eyes, grinning, "You can't control yourself, can you?"

"Barely. But I'm glad you had a good time. I'm glad you invited me." I meant to say I was glad that I came. I was sorry about being such a stick in the mud. I would do my best to try new things more often, especially when they were important to him. But then he brushed his lips against mine again, his hand warm against the skin of my neck, and I couldn't seem to form the words. Just as well. My lips were more happily occupied for the remainder of the ride home.

* * *

Translations:

 _mi amor_ \- my love

 _A/N: Well, so much for my_ How They Met _chapter. It's still hanging around, but as I tend to be distracted by shiny things, this old chapter caught my attention and I punched it up a bit. I hope you enjoy, and as always,_ _ **thank you**_ _to everyone who has reviewed. You're wonderful! - C_


	7. Seven: A Quiet Holiday

**Part VII - A Quiet Holiday**

They'd planned on spending Christmas Eve together, but crime doesn't take a holiday.

 _Warnings: OC, language_

* * *

It was a beautiful Christmas Eve. Picturesque really. Snow fell slowly, lazily outside the window, floating to the streets and rooftops in thick flakes. The city was alive, glittering in red, green, and white lights, with boughs of evergreen and holly hung over every window and door. Christmas trees brightened half the windows on the street.

I stood at the window, looking out at the snowfall, my hands warming up against the ancient radiator heater. I'd taken a walk down to the Catholic church on the corner, after the evening Mass but well before the Midnight Mass would begin. I lit a few candles and soaked in the beauty of the Christmas alter, the poinsettias, the candles. My walk back to the apartment was like walking through a winter dream. The only thing that could have made it more perfect would have been Rafael walking beside me.

Now I lay on the couch, feet propped up on the arm-rest beneath a thick sherpa-lined blanket, in fleece pajama pants and a henley, watching the snow fall out the window, the flakes catching the city light instead of moonlight. The local all-Christmas radio station played low, and I dozed, waking up now and again every time I heard a sound. I was reminded, starkly, of waiting up for Santa Claus as a kid. Only now, the arrival I was waiting for was actually going to happen.

It was my first Christmas staying in New York - I'd wanted to spend it with Rafi. My mother, of course, took the news like a ton of bricks, but she'd forgive me eventually. And maybe at some point I wouldn't regret staying.

The morning had promised a perfect day. Waking up, curled up with Rafi under a mountain of blankets. Making a gigantic breakfast, of which we ate about a quarter. Finishing up decorating the Christmas tree - that is, until his phone started buzzing, amid the sound of Jingle Bells playing over the sound system. I was reaching to put the star on top of the tree, Rafi's hands on my waist, his fingers brushing the skin that peeked out between my jeans and sweater as I reached. I straightened the star, then stepped back, his arms slipping around my waist. "Looks good, _mi amor._ "

"Very good," I agreed, my hands covering his, feeling him set his chin on my shoulder. Then the buzzing started. My fingers wrapped around his, threading together. "Nope," I singsonged. "Nope, nope, nope."

He sighed heavily, his breath moving my hair. "Baby-"

"Nope." I said, but let his hands go. He pressed a kiss to the side of my neck, before his arms slipped away. I stared at the tree, the new, shining bulbs, the white lights, the shining star, and listened to him put on his ADA voice to take the call. "Liv," he opened with, and my face was curdling already. "And this can't wait?" He finished. "All right, all right. I'll be there in… fifteen minutes."

"Fuck," I breathed, arms crossed over my chest, and I wandered to the window. The sky was gray, the street much quieter than usual. Because so many people were staying home with their families, their loved ones. I heard his footsteps coming in my direction, and I pulled the smile back on. "Crime doesn't take a holiday, huh?"

His hands found my hips, his lips found my neck. "I won't be long," he lied. And I was left alone with a half-decorated tree, Elvis Presley on the radio, and an otherwise quiet apartment.

Thirteen hours later, I was dreaming, and not just of a white Christmas. I dreamt of a Christmas years ago, my first in the house I'd bought at 21, back in Ohio. I dreamed I was stringing up lights on the front porch in a blizzard, admiring the bright lights against the white of the world, tangling myself up in the strings… the wind whipped around me, snow swirling, slipping across my cheeks…

" _Mi amor_?"

It took a moment to focus, but when I did, I saw my long-awaited arrival standing over me, his fingers touching my cheek. "Hey," he said, and offered me a horribly sad smile.

"Hey." I sat up, slowly, my body as tired as my mind. I took his hand in mine. "Hey, that's n-n-n-n…" I tried to stifle the yawn, and failed. "That's no kind of face for a Christmas Eve."

"It isn't Christmas Eve anymore."

I glanced at the TV, where 12:04 was glowing in white lights on the cable box. I smiled. "Merry Christmas, baby."

" _Feliz Navidad, mi amor._ Come on, let's get you to bed."

I let him lead me towards the bedroom, letting the glow of the Christmas lights light our way. I slipped between the covers and closed my eyes, listening to the rustle of his clothes, the water running in the bathroom, then the darkening of the room as he hit the light. He slipped into bed beside me, smelling of coffee and faintly of the cologne he'd put on this morning. Eyes still closed, I maneuvered into my usual space - cheek resting on his shoulder, arm across his chest, leg slipped over his. I heard a noise of pure contentment, and it took a moment for my mostly-sleeping mind to realize it was me.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, his voice tickling the edges of my consciousness.

"Don't be. I'm… happy. To be here… with you." And I was. I felt his arm tighten around my shoulders, and he pressed his lips to my forehead. I wasn't irritated anymore… just comforted, and I drifted to sleep with the Christmas lights shining down the hall.

* * *

Translations: _  
Feliz navidad, mi amor - Merry Christmas, my love_

 _A/N: You reviewers are my favorite people in the world right now. Thank you, thank you, thank you for taking the time to review. I appreciate it enormously! I decided to post this chapter for a couple of reasons: because we just passed the halfway point to Christmas; because I'm broasting in ninety-degree temperatures at home; and because I'm in a fluffy kind of mood. I hope you enjoy, and thank you for reading! -C_


	8. Eight: A Little Off

**Part VIII - A Little Off**

Some days they just don't jive.

 _Warnings: OC, language, short_

* * *

It had been an off day. Everybody has them, and in the years I'd been dating Rafael, we'd had maybe half a dozen of them. This in itself is remarkable, really, when you consider how much time we spend together. But these days are bound to spring up, whether due to hormones (mine), migraines (his), or stress (ours). Or sometimes it's situational; me being somewhere that makes me uncomfortable, him being manically stressed out, painfully bored, or just out of his comfort zone.

Today was one of those days. We just weren't syncing, to borrow a term from Apple. He was recovering from a migraine, a disgusting case, and a loss he took to heart more than usual. I was frazzled over a horrible workday, angry in general at being passed over for a promotion and having been called in the previous day, and probably PMSing besides.

Basically? Every other thing that came out of my mouth rubbed him the wrong way, and every third word from his mouth irritated me. I wasn't actively upset with him, just with the world, and I couldn't shake the dark cloud over my head, and something was telling me he was being dogged by a similar one.

* * *

That night, after three long, quiet hours alone in his apartment listening to the sound of the city outside the thick brick walls, I sat in the golden light of the beside lamp, tired and grumpy and wishing I didn't have to work tomorrow. Wishing I could have a do-over day. I was reading The Book Thief and stewing when I heard the front door slam.

I watched the open bedroom door for a long moment, but when no Rafi arrived, I returned my attention to the book, my irritation growing. I glanced up when he finally came in, shucking off his sweater, undoing his belt. "Hey," he said, and I replied, "Hey." I read the same paragraph eight times as he got undressed in my peripheral vision, but had no comprehension of what actually was on the page. He sank down on his side of the bed, elbows on his thighs, head in his hands, fingers tracing through his hair.

"You okay?" I asked in a rumbly voice, rusty from disuse, having spent most of the day sullen and silent.

"Yeah," he said, but I believed him like I believed in the Easter Bunny.

"Migraine back?"

"Yeah."

I hummed understanding, softening in an instant. "Com'ere."

He glanced over his shoulder, eyes just slits in his face. I patted my lap. While he maneuvered to me, I turned off the light, and adjusted the brightness of my Kindle screen. In the white light from the little screen, I watched as he settled himself down, his head coming to rest on my thighs. My fingers traced through his hair, gently, fingertips running against his skin in small massaging circles. In a quiet voice, I started reading aloud: "Whoever named Himmel Street certainly had a health sense of irony. Not that it was a living hell. It wasn't. But it sure as hell wasn't heaven, either..."

My voice was going hoarse six chapters in, my hand tired of its continual rubbing, my eyes heavy. His breathing was slow and even; he had long since fallen asleep.

I closed the cover of the Kindle, and said his name in a whisper once, twice, and a third time. "Come get comfy, babe," I told him when he sat up, and he climbed into bed beside me. I pulled the blankets up around him, around us, and for the first time that day, we fell together like puzzle pieces again: my head on his shoulder, arm over his chest, his arms around me. I drew a deep breath and sighed it out, and we fell asleep in tandem.

We were back to normal again the next day. Both grouchy, but instead of at each other, we became teammates again, irritated with the world and good with each other. He kissed my mouth on his way out the door, smelling of expensive cologne and looking as polished as ever. "I'll see you tonight?" He asked, his warm hand lingering on my neck.

"Of course."

* * *

 _A/N: Just a snippet. I've always loved examining the ins and outs of relationships, the outs being as important to the whole picture as the ins. Again, lovelies, many thanks for the reads &reviews. -C_


	9. Nine: Green Monster

**Part VIII: Green Monster**

Jealousy is an awful feeling, but not always an easy one to will away.

 _Warnings: N/A_

 _Associated episode: N/A_

* * *

I saw him the minute I walked in the door, just as I had expected: at the bar, a drink beside him and a legal pad in front of him, jacket hanging on the back of his chair, shirtsleeves rolled up, hair lulling onto his forehead, a smile on his face…

And then I saw something I hadn't expected: Olivia Benson perched on the stool beside him.

My smile was curdling before I gave it permission to, and reinstalling it on my face was more difficult than reinstalling Windows on an elderly computer.

They were deep in conversation, and though it didn't appear to be a particularly happy topic, there was a certain intimacy in the picture that irked me. Elbows touching, perhaps knees. Her leaning into him to look at the file, reaching to point something out. The casual intimacy the scene projected, the unneeded reminder that moments like this happened in the eighty or so hours a week that I didn't get to spend with him.

My first instinct was to turn around and walk away. Okay, _run_ away. Anything relationship-related that I found myself uncomfortable with, I always fought this urge. I didn't want to see the surprise of my arrival in his face - perhaps he thought I'd decided not to come after all, that I still hadn't gotten off work, that I'd gone straight home, well, straight to _his_ home. I didn't want to see the _uncomfortable-move-apart-shuffling_ my arrival might bring.

But then he turned and smiled at her, a smile so full of encouragement and goodness, and suddenly my feet were moving. Petty, yes, but I was not in control. The green monster gnashing at my cerebral cortex was.

I pasted on a tight sort of smile as I approached the bar. Their eyes were on the file, and _Yep, knees touching_. I slipped my arms around the back of both chairs, and said in a chirpy voice most unlike my own, with far too much countrified flair, "What's happenin', ya'll?"

And there it was. The _big-eyed, turn-around, move-apart, almost-caught-doing-something-that-could-almost-be-considered-inappropriate_ spin.

I'd always hated those women in movies and television, in life, that felt the need to insinuate themselves between a woman and Their Man™, to ensure the other woman - inevitably an innocent bystander - knew just who he belonged to. As if a man was a belonging. As if something that didn't want to be stolen could be. And yet…

"Hey, babe," my fingers moved of their own accord. I certainly didn't give them permission to smooth his hair away from his face, an action I'd done tens of thousands of times in the privacy of our - his, or my - bedroom. In our - his, or my - home. But never out for God, everybody, and Olivia Benson to see.

"Hey," he took the offending hand, and kissed my knuckles. I realized then that his tie was loosened. It was the blue one I'd given him just for the hell of it a few weeks ago. This, and the pressure of his lips on my skin, loosened my smile, and my nerves. "Finally broke the shackles?" He asked with a grin.

"Nearly had to gnaw off my own leg," I told him, my fingers twining with his. I glanced sideways at Olivia, whose smile I thought now had a fixed sort of quality to it. "Hi, Miss Benson," I offered, praying my cheeks were neither bright red nor cartoonishly green.

"Hello," she nodded, and hurried on, "I was actually just heading out. I'll leave you to it," she motioned to the file, but also to me? Maybe? "Good night, Rafa," she rose and smiled, and offered me one as well. "Nice to see you again."

 _Rafa_? I wondered, consciously turning my lip-curl into a smile. "You too. Good night!"

I took her place at the bar, slipping my purse over the back of the stool, waiting until she was out the door, then kissed him squarely on the mouth. "Hey," I said in a voice that sounded much more like my own, much less manic, less sing-songy.

"Hey," he grinned back, and pecked my lips again before turning towards the bartender. "Can we get a Pelegrino over here, please?"

I was slowly loosening, shaking off the frigid fingers of nervous jealousy, feeling vaguely petty, but also, overwhelmingly curious. "So, how's your night, _Rafa_?" I arched a brow at him, but kept the crooked smile on my face. He met me brow-for-brow, and chose to gloss over my sarcasm.

"Harrowing, actually… until now."

I smiled, reveling in the warm glow of that look… until I couldn't help myself any longer. "Do you prefer Rafa? Have I been calling you the wrong thing all these years?"

" _Mi amor_ …" he sighed. "No. I don't prefer it. It's another derivative of my name, but…"

"It's not your preference."

"No," he said to me in a placating sort of way, and to the bar tender in an entirely different tone, wagging a finger at his own drink, "And another one of these, please."

"So what's wrong with _Rafi_ at work? Actually, I thought she called you Barba?"

"She does-"

"So Rafa was just a stutter?"

"I- baby, what does it mat-"

"It doesn't! Just wondering." He fixed me in a look, all exasperation, all exhaustion. I wilted. "I'm driving you nuts, aren't I? Making a bad day worse?"

"Yes to the first, no to the second. Now let's get something to eat, yeah?"

"Yeah."

He waved for the bartender again, and after asking for a menu, turned back to me, and looked quite surprised by my taking his face in my hands and kissing him again. "What was that for?" He asked, dimple appearing in his cheek as he smiled crookedly.

"The beauty of being your girl, Rafi, is that I don't have to have a reason."

* * *

Translations:

 _mi amor - my love_

 _A/N: I love the Barba / Benson relationship on the show, and have always kind of felt an undertone of intimacy there that the producers could have turned into a thing if they'd wanted to. I enjoyed playing around with how a significant other with some trust issues of her own might struggle with seeing that closeness. I hope you enjoy this little chapter, and if you can, take a moment to review. It feeds the beast. Wishing you all the happiest of holidays! -C_


	10. Ten: Meeting Mami

**Part X: Meeting Mami**

 _Meeting the parents doesn't always go smoothly._

 _Warnings: Language, angst, some body-shaming, sexual situation, OC._

 _Associated episode: N/A_

* * *

"Oh, yeah, that went well," I snapped, throwing open the apartment door. I may have looked like an overgrown toddler in the throes of a tantrum, underscored by the fact that I never really had learned how to walk in heels and was unsteady on my feet. I blew in the door and made it as far as the kitchen before I kicked the first one off. It flew sideways and collided with the stove. The second made a much better appearance, soaring into the living room and knocking over that hideous table lamp in the living room. I laughed without any humor, "That's the best thing that's happened all night!"

Hobbling a bit thanks to the blisters from the new heels, I made tracks for the bedroom, shedding what I had thought was tasteful jewelry as I went, working like an acrobat to unzip my own dress. I didn't want his help. Not now.

"Tonight," he said, and hesitated a long moment. I heard the clatter of his keys on the kitchen counter. "Tonight could have gone better."

I stopped in my tracks, and swung around. He looked at me like I was a Valkyrie ready to swing down and take his face off. I kind of felt ready to.

"Oh, really?" I was shaking, physically shaking as I stormed up to the breakfast bar and glared at him. He propped himself up against the opposite counter, looking like a man settling in for what he knew to be a long, tedious evening. "What do you think could have gone better, Rafael? Maybe, I don't know, your mother could have addressed me a few more times as 'your dot-dot-dot friend'? Maybe she could have spoken a bit more Spanish, for the benefit of your idiot, redneck girlfriend from Bum Fuck Egypt?"

"She never said anything about your intelligence…"

"Of course not! She only said how hard I must've worked in night-school at my community college to become a nurse in an inner city hospital. Just before reminding me that you graduated top of your class at Harvard Law. As if I needed a reminder. Like I don't know how mismatched we are!" I spun around, ripped the clip out of my hair and shook it out, sending bobby pins flying like snowflakes in a blizzard. I stopped, pressed my eyes closed and rubbed my face, not caring if I was smearing my makeup. I couldn't look at him. I took a deep, shuddering breath, and asked, "What the fuck are you even doing with me, Rafi?"

"Oh, don't start this again…"

Frustration ebbed, anger surged. I threw my hands in the air. "No, seriously," I said to the ceiling, the floor, the walls, looking anywhere but at him as I started pacing. "I'm sure that lovely detective your mom was asking about all night, oh, what's her name? That's right, Sergeant Olivia Benson, is single. And a much better match for you! Fluent in Spanish, isn't she? A high ranking officer, one of New York's finest! Oh, she's fucking gorgeous, too, a real knock out, not a pale Sasquatch like the thing you dragged in off the street, huh? Oh, and you didn't pluck her outta some backwoods field like you did me!" My down-home twang couldn't be controlled, even had I wanted to, which I didn't particularly. "Now, I don't know a whole lot, but I sure know when I'm bein' made fun of, and honey, and y'know what? Maybe she's right. Maybe you'd be better off with someone older, more successful, more beautiful, more edu-ma-cated. Anybody but me."

I wanted to end on a high note, to really drive my point home, but my tone had gone from strong and sarcastic to hurt faster than the speed of light, and I was immediately disgusted with myself. I ignored him as he started talking, and hurried down the hall. I hit the bedroom, fuming, mad at myself, mad at him, mad at his mother, mad at the world.

In hindsight, it was appallingly apparent that I had overestimated myself, thinking I was so going to make a good impression on his family. Now, I'd never done the whole 'Meet the Parents' thing before, but I went into it with high hopes. I mean, Raf and I had been seeing each other, albeit quietly, for nearly two years. I felt I had at least the prerequisite knowledge of his life and upbringing. I thought, 'Hey! I'm a good Catholic girl, in a good, modest dress, with a good job! I've been told I'm eloquent when I want to be, and can rein in my sailor-mouth. I'm a shoe-in for her good graces!'

Hah! Yeah, right! I wasn't six inches into Lucia Barba's entryway before I realized how wrong I was.

I tossed my simple silver bangle and earrings onto the dresser, shimmying out of the dress I had loved four hours ago, the dress I now loathed entirely, if only to have something tangible to blame the outcome of this night on. Anything but to blame it on myself. I fled into the bathroom, the tile cold against my bare feet, and slammed the door, leaving the dress in a navy pile on the bedroom carpet.

My hands braced on the counter, I glared at myself in the mirror until my reflection was nothing but a blur. A too-pale blur. An ugly, too-pale blur. " _Dios mio_ , look at your pallor. Are you ill?" Her voice echoed in my mind. "Oh, I knew you weren't Cuban the moment I laid eyes on you. Cuban women have more… delicate features. And we're generally more… petite."

I screwed up my face, then pawed madly at the mascara-laced tears that slipped out of my eyes. I let out a long breath, and blinked at my reflection. There would be no crying over this. It wasn't going to do it, I just wasn't.

I heard his tentative knock on the door, and hurried to turn the water in the shower on to drown out the sound of my name. I slid out of my damned matching navy underwear - color coordinated with the dress, for fuck's sake - and stepped under the too-cold spray. The frigid blast of water was okay, actually. It gave me something else to focus on besides my crash and burn.

My entire body was shivering by the time I stepped out. I took my time drying off, toweling my hair dry, lotioning up. Anger had faded to sadness, but surely it couldn't be because a woman I'd never met before didn't like me. I rubbed my favorite scented lotion all over my skin, before popping the lid back on and tossing it back into my drawer. My drawer. I had a drawer in this man's bathroom, this man whose mother hated me, whose mother could see through my demure, 1940s style dress, my respectable airs, my nervous smile. She looked at me and saw me for what I was: a minimally educated backwater redneck from a broken home, from a family of Irish alcoholics; a lower-middle class medical worker with a too-tall, too-thick, too-pale body and too little substance. It's no wonder she didn't like me. I didn't like me. I never really got why Rafi seemed to, but clearly, that was over now. This night was probably just what he needed to shed the film from his eyes and see me, really see me for what I was. A mess.

Hot tears were burning my eyes again, as I wrapped the towel around my dry, lotioned, sweet-smelling, lead-heavy body. I flipped off the bathroom light, cracked open the door, and peeked out into the bedroom. He was lying there, eyes closed, still in the robin's egg blue shirt and black trousers he'd worn to dinner, his hair in its usual neatly combed style, shoes lying beside the bed. " _Muy guapo_!" I had declared when he'd knocked at my door that afternoon. So handsome! I had been so proud of my use of his language, despite the fact that I didn't understand hardly any of his reply.

" _Muy bien, mi amor,_ " he had laughed, and kissed me hard. When he pulled away, he gave me a once over, and in my ignorance, I gave a kicky little curtsy, thinking too much of myself. He spoke rapidly in Spanish and I caught not a single word, but it hadn't phased me, I just laughed.

"I'm getting better, but I have no idea what you just said."

He'd grinned, "I said you look beautiful. My mother will love you."

A lie, or perhaps a vain hope? I watched the slow rise and fall of his chest from my hideout, until his eyes popped open. I resisted the urge to melt back into the darkness of the bathroom. I couldn't read his expression as he patted the bed beside him.

I crept out, thoroughly embarrassed, both by my tantrum, and by my very presence. I should have just collected my dress, gotten dressed, and left. It probably would have been more comfortable to leave quietly than to have whatever conversation now awaited me.

I perched on the edge of the bed, and looked down at my hands. He didn't speak, and neither did I. I felt this terrible, horrible foreboding, like I was watching a storm roll in, and all at once the winds died and silence fell, and I knew the tornado would swirl from the sky at any moment. I knew whoever spoke first would likely be ending what had been the best relationship I'd ever had. I didn't want it to be me.

Finally, the quiet became too much to bear. "I'm sorry," I said, and was quite happy that I didn't sound nearly as broken as I felt. I didn't know what else I should say.

"I love you." He said quietly, and my mind echoed 'But? But?'. But no 'but' came.

I rubbed my face, acutely aware of my rounded freckled shoulders, my fat arms, my 'unhealthy pallor'. "Why?" I asked. I heard him sigh, but I didn't look up.

"I love that you sat through dinner and didn't say what I'm sure you were thinking to my mother. I appreciate you showing her that kind of respect, even though you weren't shown much of it tonight. And Mami and I, we're going to have a conversation about that, trust me."

I picked at my nails, my fingers, my palms.

"I love your voice. I love that you don't sound like a New Yohkah. I love that you can fall into that incredibly sexy drawl at the drop of a hat. I love that you work as hard as you do. I know you hate your job sometimes, but not a one of your patients would ever know it. I've watched you, you know, a dozen times. Last Tuesday, waiting for you at lunch. When that old woman stopped you when you walked into the cafeteria. I know you were running on about two hours of sleep on a twelve hour shift, you hadn't eaten since the day before and you just needed a break. But when she stopped you, you smiled - God, I love your smile - and you talked to her about her daughter, about getting in touch with an insurance provider, and you offered to help with her knitting. I fell a little harder for you then.

"I love that you put up with me. You listen and absorb and process and actually make sense of things when my brain is going in a thousand different directions and all my wires are crossed. I love that you… you pull me back when my toes are on the ledge. You calm that part of me. And you do it so easily, like it's nothing. I don't know how you manage it. You somehow keep coming back, and I've… I've stopped wondering why. You see my… neuroses, my… crazy, as you say. You see my… broken pieces. And somehow you're still here."

My fingers picked at the terrycloth towel. I tried to smile. "Your mom… she had some good points, though."

"Really? Name one. Go ahead. Make an argument. I'm good at winning them."

"So I've heard," I said quietly, smiling at my lap. I tried to bring my doubts to my lips, tried to force them from between my teeth, but they were wedged there.

"Convincing argument," he intoned dramatically, then sighed. I felt the bed move, then the warmth of his hand on my bare arm as he maneuvered himself behind me, sliding his legs on either side of mine, and wrapping his arms around me. My cold shower and the chill of the air had left me goosepimpling, and his heat was a welcome one. When he spoke next, he didn't need to do more than whisper, his lips right next to my ear. "I'm almost forty years old, _mi amor_. I love my mother, but her opinion is not the most important one in my life. I intend on getting to the bottom of what went on tonight, but I promise you, when she realizes that if I have any say at all, you're going to be in my life for a long, long time, she'll come around." His hands crept down my arms, his fingers intertwined with mine, pulling me in and holding me tight against him.

"And you know," he continued, reaching up to pull my still-damp hair away from my neck, and planting a lingering kiss on my cool skin, a kiss that made me shiver for a reason entirely unrelated to temperature. "I really don't care that you're not Cuban. I don't care that you don't speak Spanish, or that you don't cook _Moros y Cristianos._ And I'm actually… really… exceptionally… fond… of your… what was it? Ah. Unhealthy… pallor…" Between each word, he scattered kisses down my neck and across my shoulders.

The more my smile grew, the more I felt like my face was cracking. I still wanted to tell him all the reasons this couldn't work, the reasons we couldn't work. But damn it, he had that way of calming me down, and I couldn't get my mind to focus on anything but the heat of his mouth on my skin. One of his hands had sneaked up to my throat, gently tilting my head back to lay on his shoulder, exposing my neck to his mouth. The other fumbled with the knot of the towel wrapped around me.

"I love your freckles," he breathed as the towel fell, and he kissed my speckled shoulder, his hands roaming, and my chuckle turned into a gasp that only made him grin. "Mmm. I love your neck, have I mentioned that? I don't think I have. I do. I love your shoulders. Your arms. Your hands," he caught one up in his own and brought it up to his lips, kissing its back, then palm, then fingertips. I suppressed my smile, pressing my lips hard together. "I love your shoulders. Wait, I already said that. Hmm," his hands moved again, tracing over my skin, coming to cup my breasts. "There's a lot I love about you. Your arms, and lips, and eyes, your stomach, and thighs, your breasts, your lovely, lovely ass. Every inch of you," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper in my ear as one hand traveled down my abdomen, past my navel, and oh…

I woke up sometime in the night, tangled up in sheets and Rafi. The city lights seeped through a crack in the curtain, and I watched it turn his skin into liquid silver, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his heart. One of his hands was still threaded through my hair, the other holding my hand against his chest.

I'd never heard a man say the words 'I love you' to me before Rafi, and I'd never heard those words so much in my life as I'd heard them tonight. I knew I loved him, but I'd never known what being in love felt like. To tell the truth… I kind of liked it.

I peered up at his face in the dim light, so peaceful, an expression he rarely wore while awake.

"I love you too, Rafi," I whispered, before planting a kiss on the skin of his chest, and nuzzling back into him, letting my eyes drift closed and the beat of his heart lull me to sleep.

* * *

Translations:  
 _Muy bien, mi amor_ \- very good, my love  
 _Muy guapo -_ very handsome

A/N: It's been a long time since I updated, I figured I'd post a nice long, angsty one for anyone still interested in reading! These aren't necessarily posted in chronological order, but Mercedes Ruehl tickled me as Barba's mom, and I had to write something about OC meeting her. She brings a certain strength, a certain sassiness to all of her roles, I just imagined how she would react to meeting the girlfriend of her beloved son, a girlfriend she didn't think was quite up to his standards. Anyhow, as always, thanks so much for reading, and any reviews are appreciated more than you know. ^.^ -C


End file.
